The Long Night Series - Code of Conduct
by Shipperx
Summary: Spike at Caritas waiting for Buffy. Sequel to "Telling"


TITLE: The Long Night Series - Code of Conduct  
AUTHOR: L.A. Ward  
URL: http://hometown.aol.com/laward/eclectic.html  
SPOILERS: After Life (though revamped at little   
-- ignore the pun)  
SUMMARY: Spike at Caritas and. . .stuff happens.  
DISTRIBUTION: Sure. Take it. Wouldn't mind knowing  
where you took it though.  
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Never mine. They belong to  
Joss, but I just had to play.  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Technically this is a sequel to my  
fic "Telling" but it also works as a post "After Life"  
if on the drive to L.A. to drop Buffy off at the   
Hyperion, Spike and Buffy had basically the same   
conversations they had on the show.  
  
  
*******************************************************  
  
Out the you of yesterday  
the leavings of yourself  
the you that never was you  
  
Pick up the dice  
rattle the numbers  
let fly your choice  
  
DO. . .  
  
"Out The You of Yesterday"  
Liliane Lijn  
  
*******************************************************  
  
  
Lorne watched the vampire and the chaos demon playing   
pool.   
  
It sounded like a joke. Two demons and a vampire in   
a pool hall. . .except this wasn't a pool hall. It   
was a billards room, and if someone wanted to know the   
difference Lorne would wag his finger and say, "Style,   
honey. It's all about style."   
  
Dramatic lighting, dark walnut tables with scarlet   
felt, and nineteenth century reproduction bar stools   
beside an antique English bar created the appearance   
of a nineteenth century gentleman's club. Given the   
longevity of most species of demons, it was safe to   
say many of Lorne's customers *remembered* the   
nineteenth century, so he had made every effort to   
ensure an authentic appearance when he had added the   
billiards room to the rear of Caritas.  
  
Lorne's green face lit with a satisfied smile as   
he stirred a swizzle stick in his gin and tonic.   
Everything about the newly refurbished Caritas had   
style. Then he heard the off key warbling of the   
Uurlac demon on the karaoke stage and decided   
everything had style except a few patrons. . .   
though that was not a thing the vampire Lorne   
had been observing needed to worry about.   
  
Even if the vampire had a bit of the 80's punk left   
in him, the bleached blond bloodsucker carried it   
well, and in the end style was more about presence   
than fashion. This vampire had presence.   
  
Then again, most of the old ones did. It took a   
certain shrewdness of character and strength of will   
for a vamp to survive more than forty or fifty years.   
They were a back stabbing lot and most other demons   
took little heed of them. Then there were all of   
their weaknesses--sunlight, crosses, holy water. No,   
for all the promise of 'eternal life' most vamps were   
gifted only a few decades of carnage then dusted   
-- except the strong ones, the lucky ones, or the   
smart ones. It was to the vamp's advantage to be all   
three. Still, that meant old ones were rare and likely   
to be formidable. . .and probably knew enough not to   
be a slave to the latest fads. They knew what worked   
for them and stuck to it.  
  
Lorne sipped his drink. Yes, black leather worked for   
this one, and the demon found himself wondering what   
the vampire thought of interspecies relationships.  
  
"Hi there."  
  
Lorne turned to find a dark haired, human woman   
grinning at him.  
  
"Hi there, gorgeous." He eyed Cordelia Chase.   
"That's quite the outfit you have there."  
  
"You like?" Cordy turned to model the slinky black   
halter dress. It hugged her in all the right places,   
and Cordy had very nice places to hug. Even the   
Uurlac demons were noticing, and they were   
xenophobes.  
  
"Is it new?" Lorne asked.   
  
"Oh yeah. And expensive too. And--" Cordy's glee   
was obvious "--matching shoes. See." Strappy   
stiletto heeled sandals graced her well pedicured   
feet.  
  
'Mmm-hmm, and what has Angel done now?"  
  
Cordy plucked an olive from the bartending tray.   
"Disappeared for three days to clear out a vampire  
nest without signing payroll."  
  
"And this was payback?"  
  
"With interest."   
  
"I see. So why waste all that gloss and glamour here,  
sweetie? Shouldn't you be at some human nightclub   
showing off?"  
  
"I'm looking for Angel."  
  
"Angel left an hour ago. Said you called about  
some Fyrll demon."  
  
Cordy's jaw dropped. "What?"  
  
"You didn't call?"  
  
"No, I called. I just--" She stamped her foot. "I   
said I was going to collect the money we were owed   
for *killing* the Fyrll demon. Angel was supposed to  
meet me here." Cordy hopped to sit on one of the bar   
stools. "I thought vampires were supposed to have   
super special hearing. Must be a myth. Turns out   
they're as deaf as every other kind of male."  
  
"Sorry, sweetie, anything I can do?"  
  
Cordy arched a brow. "What are you drinking?"  
  
There was a shriek from the other side of the room as   
the Chaos demon and the vampire circled each other in   
a predatory manner that clearly frightened the effeminate   
and excitable Gelf who stood near them.  
  
The vampire straightened his leather duster. "Not my   
fault you bet more than you could afford to lose."  
  
The demon protested in the string of consonants that   
made up his native language. However, the vampire didn't   
appear to need an interpreter and answered in a rough   
and tumble Brit accent, "What I'm saying, mate, is a   
welcher is a welcher no matter how big he is."  
  
Again the Chaos demon muttered something Lorne could   
not understand, but the vampire refused to back down.   
  
"Am I willin' to fight over it?" The vamp laid his   
pool cue across the table. "Yeah, I'm willin' to fight   
over it."  
  
Lorne moved to prevent the pending fight. So far there  
had been no violence, but it was clearly on its way. As  
he stood Cordy grabbed his arm. "Spike!" she squeaked.  
  
Lorne glanced over his shoulder at his lovely human   
companion. "Spike what, hon?"  
  
Cordy didn't look up as she dug through her purse.  
"Spike *who* Spike."  
  
Well that clarified. . .nothing.   
  
Lorne touched Cordy's arm and asked, "Who or what is   
a spike?"  
  
She pointed at the black clad vampire. "Him. There.   
That's a Spike." Cordy jumped off her bar stool.   
"I need to call Angel."  
  
Lorne watched as the vampire bristled under his large   
opponent's insults. It didn't take a psychic to see   
where this fight would lead. Still, being on first   
person speaking terms with fate, Lorne was left with   
no doubts as to how this particular fight would end.   
He'd seen it more than an hour earlier when the Chaos   
demon had performed an ear splitting rendition of "The   
Way We Were." Listening to the demon now, Lorne   
suspected the horned monster had learned the lyrics   
phonetically...which explained why 'laughter' had   
sounded so much like 'slaughter.'   
  
Lorne patted Cordy's hand. "You go and find a phone.   
I'll see what I can do to let the hot air out of the   
room."  
  
"Be careful," she warned. "Spike can be dangerous."  
  
Lorne frowned. "Just how well do you know the blonde  
cutie?"  
  
"He's not cute." She paused. "Okay, so he's cute but  
only if you ignore the killer part. And to answer your  
question, I know Spike well enough to have been impaled  
on rebar because of him."  
  
"He impaled you?" An unusually dark emotion bubbled   
inside Lorne. He didn't like the idea of Cordelia   
being hurt.  
  
"Um, not exactly. Spike kidnapped an old boyfriend of   
mine."  
  
Lorne laid a sympathetic hand on Cordy's shoulder, "Did   
the vampire kill him?"  
  
"No. Worse. Spike locked Xander in a room with a witch   
who had a crush on him--and I found Xander and Willow   
in full spit swap!"  
  
"Did *you* kill this boyfriend?"  
  
Cordy shook her head. "Thought about it but fell   
through some stairs and became a Cordy shish kabob   
instead. Not exactly one of the better days of my   
life, and all because Spike wanted some stupid love   
spell to win back Drusilla."  
  
"Wait." Lorne searched his memory. "Drusilla. Why   
does that name sound familiar?"  
  
"Crazy girl who re-vamped Darla, went on a killer   
shopping spree and topped it off with a lawyer   
buffet."  
  
"Oh. That Drusilla."  
  
"Yeah. That Drusilla, that Darla, and that Spike.   
With Angel they made quite the fearsome foursome in   
the bad old days."  
  
Lorne pursed his lips. "So you're saying..."  
  
"That Spike and Angel are 'family' in that twisted   
undead way."  
  
"And having seen what the rest members of the family   
can do. . ."  
  
"I'll go call Angel."  
  
Cordy slipped from the room as Lorne made his way toward   
the vampire and the Chaos Demon. "Excuse me, gentlemen,"   
Lorne interrupted the posturing duo. "It is clearly   
posted that fighting is not allowed inside Caritas."  
  
Spike tilted his head to the side. "Who would make   
such a nancy boy rule?"  
  
"I made it. And anyone violating it will be shown the   
door."  
  
The Chaos demon chuckled at the vampire's expense, but   
Lorne wasn't amused. "And you," he wagged his finger   
at the horned demon. "You've been banned here and you  
know it. You ate one of my bartenders as he was leaving  
the bar last week. Bartenders are *not* on the menu."   
Lorne pointed toward the door. "Go."  
  
The Chaos demon looked offended.   
  
"Do I *really* need to call a bouncer?" Lorne asked.   
"Last time I checked, Kurt was hoping to update his décor   
by having an eight pointer mounted over his mantle."  
  
The Chaos demon looked confused.  
  
Spike began counting the Chaos demon's horns. "One,   
two, three, four--"  
  
The demon turned and left. Spike shrugged, picked up his   
pool cue, and neatly sank the eight ball in the corner   
pocket.  
  
With an uncharacteristic frown marring Lorne's pleasant   
green features, he asked, "Was that really necessary?"   
  
Spike cocked his head to the side. "Was what necessary?"   
  
"Threatening a fight."  
  
"Oh, that." Spike collected the balls from the billiard   
table's pockets and rolled them across the scarlet felt.   
"Fights aren't necessary. Just fun."  
  
"That particular brand of fun isn't allowed inside   
Caritas."  
  
"Pity."   
  
Spike produced a pack of cigarettes, but Lorne stopped  
him. "*That* brand of fun also isn't allowed."   
  
The vampire cursed. "Bleedin' hell. Got something   
against Marlboros?"  
  
"By brand, no? All brands are banned."  
  
The vamp looked stunned. "You're kidding, right?   
This is a bar! 'Course you smoke in a bar."  
  
"Not this bar."  
  
Spike stepped back, his expressive face showing   
confusion and frustration. "Is there some strange   
health ordinance? 'Cause I gotta remind you--this   
is a *demon* bar. You just threw out a bloke for   
eating a bartender for Christ's sake. You *can't*   
be worried about the population's health."   
  
Lorne crossed his arms. "My bar. My rules. Besides  
if you light up here, you may literally light up.   
I have a little anti-smoking spell going with a few   
Furies."  
  
The vampire suddenly stood totally still then cocked   
his head to the side. "Three brick stupid bints?"  
  
"You know them?"  
  
"Spent a perfectly nauseating fortnight watching   
them salivate over my grandsire." Spike began   
pacing. "Did I mention the experience was nauseating?"  
  
"I believe you did."  
  
"Well I can't mention it enough so that you know how   
truly horrifying it was." He laughed bitterly. "If   
Furies had anything to do a warding spell on this place,   
I'm surprised I crossed the threshold without bursting  
into flames."  
  
"I take it you have 'issues' with the Furies?"  
  
"A few. While drooling over the poofter they decided  
I wasn't worthy to lick his shoes--not that I would. I   
don't go in much for that sort of thing. Told them that   
they could bloody well stick it."  
  
Lorne nodded sagely. "And the Furies were offended?"  
  
"Oh yeah. No one was allowed to question the   
'specialness' of the great Angelus." Spike stopped   
pacing. "I did mention this was quite the nauseating   
experience, didn't I?"  
  
"A few times."  
  
"Mentioned it to them too. Furies said I wasn't  
payin' Peaches proper respect, so they sent me   
to a hell dimension for six weeks." Spike lifted  
his chin. "And now I need a cigarette."  
  
Lorne offered, "You could step outside and return   
when you're done if you would like."  
  
"Well, maybe I won't like."  
  
"Maybe. It's you're choice."  
  
"Hrumpf." Spike pushed open the bars rear door.  
  
As the door closed behind the vampire, Lorne could not   
help thinking there were times he hated reading auras  
and foreseeing destiny.  
  
* * *  
  
The alley behind Caritas was dark but that didn't   
bother Spike. He was a vampire after all. He was   
used to the dark. He liked the dark. It was part of   
his nature. What was *not* part of his nature was   
following rules...so why had he?   
  
Spike had always felt he could do whatever he bloody   
well wanted, so why had he chosen to follow the green   
guy's instructions? He could have had a good row with   
the Chaos demon. It would have been a nice work out   
after a night like tonight, and--as an extra bonus--it   
would have been a Chaos demon.  
  
Spike didn't like Chaos demons. A fella couldn't   
trust 'em.   
  
But he hadn't brained the slimy horned demon with a   
pool cue, now had he? No. Spike had listened to some   
red eyed, yellow coated, effusive bar owner and taken   
himself to a back alley just to have a smoke. Pathetic   
was what it was. Damned pathetic.  
  
The vampire struck a match to light his fag and   
wondered what in the hell had gotten into him lately.   
His closest pal was a fourteen year old human girl.   
He was blind sick in love with a Slayer who stared  
at him stone faced while using him as convenient  
ally, punching dummy, or sounding board but who  
barely tolerated his presence when her world was  
anything but walking torment.   
  
Plus there was the fact she had been dead for last  
147 misery ridden days. . .but not 148 because   
yesterday and today didn't count.   
  
Through all that was magical, mystical and mind   
numbingly frightening, Buffy was back. . .and still   
Spike could not shake the feeling that he had been   
responsible for Buffy's death--which was laughable   
when he thought about it. Spike had killed two slayers   
outright, but failing to save a third had left him   
gasping for air he did not need. Buffy's death   
had been an open wound in his side that would not   
heal. . .but now she was back and the nightmare was   
over.  
  
Wasn't it?  
  
Spike wished he actually believed it was over. He   
wished somehow he could force himself to commit to   
the idea that the anguish of the last few months had  
at long last come to an end. He wished...Aw hell, Spike  
wished many things. Rarely did any wish come true.   
That had been made clear to Spike more times than he   
could count in his hundred and some score years of   
existence. If he thought about it much it would make   
him as broody as Peaches, so Spike chose to forge ahead   
hoping action would somehow provide purpose.   
  
Sometimes it even worked. There had been moments after   
Buffy's death when Spike could almost believe that   
protecting Niblet and even that ragtag walking disaster  
known as the Scoobies was enough to keep him occupied   
and distracted. . .to keep him going. Only as cures   
went, it had only been marginally successful. When the   
morning came and he had been left to his own devices,   
Spike had been all too aware of the aching emptiness   
inside him and the myriad of ways his unlife lacked   
direction.   
  
It seemed that from the first moment Spike had seen   
Buffy wrapped in shadows and light and pulsing beat of   
The Bronze, his existence had become an ever increasing   
miasma of confusion until here he sat in a dark alley   
realizing he had just followed the rules of etiquette   
for a social situation without giving it a bloody   
second thought!   
  
Bugger it all to hell! How had he been brought to this?  
  
* * *  
  
  
Charterhouse Public School   
London, England -- 1865  
  
"Louder and with more conviction, William."  
  
William Blodgett lifted his chin at Reverand Thackery's   
command and continued his recitation. "A gentleman is   
occupied in removing obstacles which hinder the free   
and unembarrassed action of those around him. He concurs   
with their movements rather than takes the initiative  
himself. The true gentleman is tender towards the   
bashful and gentle towards the distant. He is seldom   
prominent in conversation. He makes light of favors   
while he does them, and seems to be receiving when he   
is conferring--"  
  
"William, are you listening to what you say?"  
  
William's uncertain gaze darted hesitantly toward the  
school headmaster. "Y-yes, sir."   
  
"Are you quite certain you are listening?"  
  
"Y-yes, sir."  
  
Reverend Thackery stood and circled his massive oak  
desk. "And you have taken it to heart?"  
  
William bowed his head. Sandy colored curls partially  
obscured his features as he murmured something  
unintelligible. The reverend lifted William's chin.  
  
"You know why you are here, do you not?" the Reverend  
asked.  
  
William nodded. "Because of the scene in the dormitory."  
  
"Yes, William. Because of the scene in the dormitory.   
I am quite disappointed in you."  
  
"But sir!"   
  
Reverend Thackery raised his hand to bid William   
cease his protest even before it had begun. William   
dutifully complied despite the emotion boiling inside   
him. He had caused enough trouble.  
  
The headmaster sighed and for an instant William   
thought the old man had patted his head. However,   
William quickly concluded he was mistaken when   
Reverend Thackery resumed his seat behind his   
massive desk and fixed William with a stern stare.  
  
William felt like crying. He did not like to cause   
trouble or call undue attention to himself. It seemed   
that whenever he tried to step out of the shadows   
someone stood waiting to drive him back, so William   
had forced himself to become accustomed to the shadows  
even though he hated them. It was just that tonight he   
could not have borne one moment more.   
  
Frederick Nesbitt had plundered Bertie's Darton's   
personal belongings, and Bertie was but four days   
dead.  
  
If anyone had bothered to ask--not that anyone would  
--William would have any number of things to say  
regarding Bertie's death. First among those things  
ws the matter of Frederick locking Bertie out of   
the dormitory during a winter storm. For nearly an   
hour Bertie had stood under icy sleet and rain as   
Frederick dared any of the smaller boys to approach   
the door.   
  
In some hidden part of himself, William had charged  
Frederick, kicked him, and dragged poor Bertie inside,   
but in truth William had only stood still and cowed   
until Frederick had become bored with his sadistic   
game and had chosen to walk away. Once Frederick had   
left the room, William had immediately undone the   
latch and lead Bertie inside.   
  
Bertie's lips and fingernails had been blue and his   
teeth had chattered as he shivered uncontrollably.   
It had given William a fright. How could anyone be   
so very cold? The silent question had been followed  
by a wave of self disgust. How could he have allowed   
the vicious game to go on for so long? Why had he not   
helped his friend?  
  
William had rushed to the cupboard and removed a rough   
wool blanket to warm Bertie before he had turned to   
add coal to the fire. In that instant William had   
honestly believed the worst was over, that all would   
be well. It had been a tiresome night, but surely   
things would improve...  
  
William had been wrong. Terribly wrong.  
  
During the night Bertie had developed a fever that by  
morning had become a cough. William had fretted over   
his friend's health when Bertie had missed both Greek   
and Latin the next day, and yet somehow William had  
still been unwilling or unable to anticipate what was   
to come.   
  
In what seemed to be a horrifically brief span of time,   
mere days, Bertie's cough had become pneumonia which had   
lead Headmaster Thackery to summon Bertie's mum.   
  
Unlike Frederick and William, who were considered   
"Gownboys" because their parents were of some small   
social consequence, Bertie Darton had been a "Townie."   
"Townie" was a term which had nothing to do with   
geographic location and everything to do with Bertie's   
social standing. Unlike William's more genteel heritage  
--his great uncle had been the Earl of Rutherford--  
Bertie's family were merchants and only modestly   
successful ones at that. Bertie, a bright boy of twelve,   
had been accepted to Charterhouse on scholarship...and   
he had been William's only friend.  
  
William and Bertie had made an odd pair. Bertie, stocky   
and solid--some would even say plump--had stood half a   
head taller than the pale and almost painfully thin   
William Blodgett. If a soul had been asked a fortnight   
earlier which of the boys would most likely sicken and   
die, the person would have logically chosen William.   
Instead, it had been Bertram Darton maliciously left   
in the rain. It had been Bertie who had shivered under   
blankets and called for his mum. It had been Bertie   
that Reverend Thackery and single chambermaid had   
dressed in his best suit and placed in a pine box.  
  
When Bertie's mum had finally arrived clutching a   
thin woolen cloak around her narrow shoulders,   
Headmaster Thackery had sadly informed her of Bertie's   
death. The woman had collapsed in indecorously loud   
tears as the reverend lead her to a chair near the fire.   
The headmaster had patted the her hand while praising   
Bertie, saying what a fine, bright young lad Bertie   
had been--honorable, kind, light spirited, everything   
to make a mother proud. Then the Reverend had   
reassured her that her son had died peacefully.  
  
William had wanted to run screaming from the room.   
Bertie had spent days coughing uncontrollably and   
moaning in either fever or pain. He had complained   
of his sides hurting and the room spinning. Bertie had  
sounded as though he was drowning in his own breath even   
as he lay in a warm, dry bed. It had been horrible and   
William had known that his own inaction was to blame.   
He *should* have helped Bertie. He should have done   
more.   
  
He could not stand and witness Mrs. Darton's tears.   
  
Wanting to be anywhere but in that room, he had   
nevertheless stood in a shadowed corner enduring each  
agonizing moment as his just punishment for his cowardice  
and the self loathing had grown a thousand fold when   
Mrs. Darton had raised red rimmed, tear filled eyes to   
gaze blindly in William's direction.   
  
She knows, William had thought--though the more sane   
portion of his mind had known Mrs. Darton was so   
absorbed in her grief that it was doubtful that she   
had seen William at all. Still, feelings had little to   
do with sanity. It had *felt* as though her gaze had   
branded him a weakling and coward, and he could find no  
reason not to submit to that brand. It was what he   
thought of himself. If he had been stronger or braver   
he would have *done* something rather than stand and   
watch Bertie freeze then cough himself to death.   
  
William had failed his friend when Bertie had needed   
it most...and now Bertie was dead. Not *one* of William's   
pointless gestures such as sacrificing his own blankets or   
dinner had made an iota of difference. Those gestures had   
come too late to do any good. Nothing he could do would   
bring Bertie back or erase William's knowledge that he   
had failed his only friend in the world.  
  
Tonight, when William had found Frederick Nesbitt   
plundering Bertie's belongings because Mrs. Darton   
had been too grief stricken to take them away, an   
emotion unlike any William had ever known had darkened   
his soul. Anger, bitterness, and shame had washed over  
him in a drowning wave. William had seen Frederick   
pocket Bertie's two headed sixpence and dog eared copy   
of Punch and something dark and foreign had burned inside  
him, flaying his senses raw. With a cry of inhuman  
rage William had launched himself at older boy, pummeling   
Frederick as hard as he possibly could.  
  
The action had been so out of character for the normally  
passive William that for a moment Frederick had failed   
to react...long enough for William to land a solid blow   
followed by a satisfying crack of Frederick's nose.   
  
Bellowing in fury and pain, Frederick had thrown   
William against the stone wall before wiping his nose   
blood away with the back of his hand. When William had   
fallen to his knees, Frederick had proceeded to kick him   
William in the side.   
  
William had curled in upon himself, vainly searching for  
protection against the punishing blows, when Reginald  
Holland had grabbed him from behind and dragged William  
to his feet. Held immobile by the older boy, William  
had been left exposed to Frederick's punches and jabs.  
He had felt a fist hit his gut followed by an elbow, and,   
when William had doubled over in pain, Reggie had grabbed   
his hair and pulled him upright so that Frederick could  
land another blow.  
  
How long this went on, William had no idea. He had lost  
all sense of time. He had been battered, bruised,   
and retching up the remnants of his dinner when the older   
boys had grown tired of the beating and had decided to   
drag him down the long, dark hall to shove him into the   
small two foot by two foot by three foot dumbwaiter. They   
had slammed and locked the door behind him, leaving   
William alone in the dark.  
  
The dumbwaiter had swayed under William's slight weight,   
and he had been all too aware that only a small chain   
or rope was all that held him aloft. At any moment it   
could break sending him plummeting to the cold stone   
floor three stories below. If he moved too quickly   
or too violently he could do himself severe injury so   
William had sat impossibly still.  
  
Slowly William had become aware of the pitch, black   
darkness surrounding him. There was a tiny crack of   
light beneath the door, but not so much that William   
could even make out the outline of his hand against   
the black. The dumbwaiter swayed and William's heart   
was in his throat as he pressed his hand against the   
rough wood of the box where he sat. He had listened   
intently for a moment. Would Reggie and Frederick   
return? They could not simply *leave* him there!  
  
Could they?   
  
Time passed. . .a great deal of time. William had no   
idea how much, but he could not help believe it was   
considerable. He had then begun fearing he had been   
forgotten. Who would notice he was gone? More to the   
point. . .who would care?  
  
William had begun pounding on the door, demanding   
release then begging for it.   
  
No one had answered his pleas.  
  
Then William had begun to cry---silent tears because he  
knew better than to let the others witness the extent  
of his weakness. Just as he had known they *had* heard   
his pleas for help, William had known they were waiting   
to hear him utterly broken. He had refused to give them   
that satisfaction.   
  
Some time later, after snuffling and wiping his nose   
with the back of his hand, William had begun wondering  
what he could do to prevent his spending the *entire*   
night locked in the dumbwaiter. That was when he had   
become aware of a quick, light touch across his shoulder.   
  
At first he had dismissed it. It had been his imagination   
and nothing more. There was nothing else it *could* be.   
Nothing else was there. William had been locked in a box   
held aloft by little more than glorified string. The only   
thing he need fear was tumbling into the cellars. . .at   
least that's what William told himself in his more   
rational moments. In his less rational ones William   
had been quite certain someone's evil gaze bore into   
him, judging him and finding him wanting.   
  
William had shivered and strained his faulty eyesight   
in a futile attempt to see in the dark even as he   
reassured himself there was nothing to see. There   
was no such thing as demons, gremlins, and ghosts.   
They were the stuff of nightmares and superstition,   
figments of a childish imagination. . .but everything   
was black and still and silent, and no matter how   
valiantly William tried to chase away his fears,   
panic rose inside him, choking him.   
  
Again something had brushed across William's shoulder   
then the scruff of his neck. He had batted at it even   
as it found its way beneath his collar.  
  
A spider? A ghost? Did it matter?!  
  
William had screamed and instinctively tried to stand,   
banging his head against the top of the dumbwaiter and   
making him see stars. He had swatted as his neck as   
dumbwaiter gave a stomach jolting lurch, falling a couple   
of feet and making William aware--indeed, quite certain--  
that his life was in real danger. If the rope gave way   
he would crash into the bottom of the shaft and. . .   
  
William had clawed at the door. "Let me out!" he had   
screamed. "In God's mercy, let me out!" His nails  
had become bloodied from tearing at the wood. "Let me   
out!"  
  
Suddenly, Reverend Thackery had thrown open the doors,   
and William had tumbled in shivering ball of hurt and   
fear at the headmaster's feet. Frederick and Reggie   
had stood only a few feet away snickering and openly   
enjoying William's humiliation and defeat.  
  
The reverend had shooed away bystanders before   
demanding that Frederick, Reginald, and William   
follow him down the stairs. After seating them in   
the hallway the headmaster had explained he would   
speak to each boy privately.   
  
William had not been privy to what Reverend Thackery   
had said to his tormenters. He had only seen Frederick   
and Reggie leave the library looking duly chastened as   
they cast William baleful glances. Once the older   
boys had disappeared up the stairs, William had been   
summoned into the headmaster's private study.  
  
"William, do you know why I asked you to recite the   
virtues of a gentleman?" the reverend asked.  
  
William bowed his head. "Because my behavior was   
unseemly. I should not have resorted to fisticuffs   
with Frederick."  
  
The headmaster sighed. "That is not precisely the   
lesson I was attempting to teach you. Though, yes,  
it is quite unseemly behavior and is beneath you."   
The headmaster leaned back into his chair. "Look   
at me, William. I understand why you did what you   
did. It was an understandable if ill advised action.   
What I am attempting to impress upon you is such a   
reaction will gain you nothing and indeed could lead   
you to harm."  
  
Thackery stood. "Frederick and Reginald are older   
than you. They are stronger than you. They can   
inflict great damage upon your person if you give   
them cause."  
  
William glanced in the headmaster's direction and  
began to protest, "But--"  
  
Again the headmaster raised his hand. "No, William.  
Save your protests. I am only stating fact. Beware   
Frederick, Reginald, and his ilk. Those boys are   
uncivil, unreasonable louts who seek only to   
subjugate those around them. Do not be swayed by   
their judgments of you, and do not sink to their   
level. You, my boy, are capable of accomplishing much   
good in this world--if only you will allow yourself   
to achieve it. You are clever and with proper   
instruction, will grow to be an intelligent and   
insightful young man. Do not let their bullying send  
you down the wrong path. Do not sink to their level.  
Use you wits, William. They are your greatest assets.   
You are what you create yourself to be. Now, begin   
again."  
  
With his chin held high William trained his gaze on   
the landscape painting behind the headmaster's   
shoulder and continued his recitation. "A gentleman   
has no ears for slander or gossip. He never insinuates   
evil which he dare not say out. From long-sighted   
prudence, he observes the maxim that we should ever   
conduct ourselves towards our enemy as if he were one   
day to be our friend. He has too much good sense to   
be affronted by insults. He is too well employed to   
remember injuries, and too indolent to bear malice.   
He submits to pain, because it is inevitable, to   
bereavement, because it is irreparable, to death   
because it is his destiny. . ."  
  
* * *  
  
Spike tossed his fag onto the pavement and wondered   
why tonight of all nights he was bothered by William   
the Bloody. Those memories were more than a century   
and a lifetime ago. None of it mattered now.  
  
He lit another cigarette.   
  
As a general rule, Spike did a fairly impressive job   
of repressing those antiquated memories even if he   
could never quite quash the wanker-like penchant for   
sentimentality. But why *those* memories, and why   
tonight?  
  
Stupid question. Buffy had come back.   
  
Willow had invoked some spell and--poof!--the Slayer   
had returned. Buffy had stood before him looking small,   
frail, and lost with huge haunted eyes. But it was   
*her!* It was really her and Spike's heart had sung   
though he could see Buffy's was doing nothing of the   
sort. . .and upon witnessing her pain, his own joy   
had died a quick, brutal death.   
  
Spike had longed to touch her, to wrap his arms around   
her, to reassure himself that she was real. He hadn't   
of course. It would have been an intrusion upon  
her, so he had kept a respectful distance and when   
the shock of her return had faded he had watched her  
adoringly, warily, and pained by the confusion in her   
eyes.  
  
Bugger it all to hell. Typical. One of his most  
deeply cherished dreams had been brought to life and  
it was not at all as he had imagined. Instead of the  
miracle of Buffy's return bringing relief and joy,  
it brought fear and yet more pain. Buffy was not  
happy. Her gaze spoke of an agony so great that for  
a moment Spike had thought it was physical. It had  
not been, but he knew better than most that there  
were times when physical pain was easier to bear than  
the emotional kind. And. . .and. . .  
  
It was enough to make a vampire laugh at his own  
perverted, insane existence. Spike had wanted to HELP  
her, to make the pain go away, to do something, to  
say something to bring the life and light -- hell even  
fire and contempt -- back to her eyes. Instead he had  
stood watching her, feeling much the same as William  
the Bloody had felt staring at Bertram Darton's shivering  
small form. William had seen Bertie's agony but had   
no way of helping ease it. William had felt--no, he had  
*known*--he had failed his friend. And though he had   
tried desperately to push it away, William had somehow   
known the worst was still yet to come. Worst of all,   
William had been incapable of stopping a thing, changing   
a thing, or saving anyone--not even himself.  
  
It bloody well bit the big was what it did.   
  
It was pain and grief and helplessness all combined.   
It was caring so much you hurt and knowing there was   
more hurt to come. It was something a vampire was   
*not* supposed to feel.   
  
That was part of the lure of becoming a creature of   
the night. All that. . .that. . .*stuff* fell away.   
It became inconsequential. Uncertainty became others'   
problems, not your own. *You* enjoyed chaos, fear,   
violence, and death. You did not wonder about   
consequences until they made you sleepless and sick.   
You did not grieve until it left you hollow and lost.   
You did not have your heart torn out by the doe eyed   
gaze of a young girl who needed your protection, or   
the exhausted and haunted look of a young woman who   
shouldered a lifetime's worth of pain in the brief   
span of twenty years.  
  
Bugger it. This was *not* who he was supposed to   
be and yet here Spike stood not knowing what to do   
or where to go to set things right -- RIGHT for God's  
sake! What in all that was unholy was *he* doing  
wondering about what was right?  
  
Out of the corner of his eye Spike saw a hulking   
figure lumber into the alley. Demon. Probably a   
scavenger of some sort.   
  
Spike sank back into the shadows, blending with the   
night and allowing the bloke to go on his way. Spike   
didn't wish to become involved. . .which was the   
way things *should* be. He. Should. Not. Care.   
  
He was supposed to be the "Big Bad" for Christ's   
sake! At best he should be *causing* mayhem. At   
worst, he should be disinterested in the mayhem   
caused by others. Instead Spike had just finished   
a summer doing nightly patrols with a bunch of   
humans to protect the helpless populace of the   
Hellmouth. It should be enough to make his skin   
crawl. . .only it didn't.  
  
Taking a drag from his cigarette, Spike laid  
his head against the plain brick wall and closed  
his eyes. Without a doubt, Buffy, her sister, and   
her friends had well and truly messed him up. Spike   
was not at all as he should be.   
  
Spike recognized the ache and uncertainty welling   
inside him. William had lived a lifetime of it.   
William had known pain, humiliation, helplessness,   
loneliness--all those things Spike had worked   
desperately to eradicate from his existence and to   
forget. . .surely even he deserved times when he   
could forget.   
  
Spike swallowed convulsively. No, he could credit  
fate or the Powers That Be or the devil himself or   
whoever it was who arranged such things with at   
least keeping that much of the bargain. Spike *had*   
forgotten. For years, for decades, he had become the   
soulless killer, the scourge of Europe. He had cared   
for nothing and no one (especially himself) with the   
lone exception of his darkly beautiful princess, his   
Dru. All the love Spike had thought he had been left   
had been channeled into her. . .until she had turned   
away.  
  
Spike saw the rear door of Caritas open. The   
scavenging demon quickly hid behind a dumpster as a   
dark haired woman stepped out of the bar. The black   
clad feminine form made Spike think of his darling Dru   
and the decades he had spent at her side, loving her   
blindly. . .so blindly he had thought himself loved   
in return. That misconception had been corrected   
when it had taken all of a single day for Angelus to   
lure Dru into his bed upon his return to his villainous   
ways.   
  
One fucking day.  
  
More than a century of giving Dru everything he had,  
of living for her in every way Spike knew, it had  
taken only hours for Dru to turn her adoring face up  
to the poofter. . .and STILL Spike had thought of   
nothing but protecting her, winning her back, loving  
her. . .Then she left him for a Chaos demon, then  
a fungus demon. Would he never learn?  
  
Apparently not.  
  
Fate was off somewhere laughing his ass off at ol'   
Spike. Spike just knew it. Nearly a century and   
a half of running had gotten him precisely no where.   
Here he stood -- *still* the bloody stupid fool for   
love. Granted, it was someone different, someone   
*better* he loved today, but the fact remained, Spike   
would gladly prostrate himself for the love of a woman,  
a certain woman, the woman he loved despite the fact   
it was an unrequited affection.  
  
Silently, privately Spike yearned to see once-- just   
once--the *light* of love and happiness in a woman's   
eyes when she looked at him.   
  
It had never been. Dru was not a creature of light...  
or of love if the truth was spoken. Dru was too lost   
for that. She only briefly intersected with this world.  
Harm? It was laughable to think of love ever piercing  
her self absorption. She had wanted to be coddled,  
petting, indulged, and entertained, and though Spike had  
the talent for such chores, his heart had simply not been   
in it. Truth to tell, for more than a year there he had  
thought his heart was at long last well and truly dead.  
  
Turned out he was wrong. . .again.   
  
And sickening though it was to allow himself to think   
it, somewhere in his unbeating heart Spike suspected   
that Harm was as close as any woman had ever come to   
loving him. . . .even Dru.  
  
The thought was enough to chill the soul he did not   
have.  
  
And then there was Buffy. It no longer mattered  
whether she loved him or ever *could* love him. Spike   
loved her. He hurt for her. He wanted to right her   
world for her--laughable though that goal may be--  
and he had no idea of how to do it. What did a black   
knight know about defending a battered warrior of the   
light?  
  
The woman in the alley screamed as the demon attacked.  
  
Obviously not a scavenger, Spike though and frowned   
when he saw light from the street glisten off of  
. . .antlers.   
  
Damnit. It was the Chaos demon.  
  
The woman -- a human, even from a distance Spike could  
tell -- put up a good fight. She slammed her full  
body weight into the oversized demon causing it to   
lose balance and stagger. She pulled away and   
ran to the door of Caritas.  
  
She didn't even see the demon coming. It was on  
her in a heartbeat.   
  
Spike fiddled with his cigarette. This could be  
bad. Chaos demons were a horny lot. Not all  
were unremittingly evil-- but the ones who were  
happened to be nasty buggers. Given the bartender  
story and the way he was dragging the screaming  
woman from the door, Spike was willing to bet this  
particular demon fell into the ranks of the "evil."  
  
Spike dropped his cigarette and crushed it with  
the toe of his boot.  
  
And just what was *he* supposed to do about this?  
Spike wondered. He was a vampire for bleedin' sake.   
He was the creature from whom the woman was supposed   
to scream and flee, not some hero supposed to dash to  
her rescue. That was the Poofter's mindset. Evil's  
afoot, dash in, save the day and let the poor little  
damnsel in distress drool all over him. Sickening  
was what it was. Damned sickening.  
  
The woman being dragged by the demon managed one   
good blow. Spike winced. Oh yes, the Chaos demon   
was going to feel that in the morning, and she may   
have just incapacitated the creature from carrying   
out his nefarious plans. . . at least his more   
sexual nefarious plans.   
  
Well good. That would save Spike the embarrassment   
of playing some damned fool hero.  
  
Only. . .well damn. Now the demon not only looked  
horny but pissed and ready to rip the woman's  
head off.   
  
She screamed.   
  
It was a loud, terrified scream and reminded Spike all   
too clearly of Niblet's when she had been caught on   
the tower. Suddenly Spike had the clear mental image   
of the look in Dawn's eyes when she had stood struggling  
and helpless on Glory's tower. He also remembered  
the sight of Buffy's body lying at the foot of the   
tower, beautiful, broken and lifeless. Would the same  
happen to this woman? Somewhere would there be people  
who would cry over her the way he and Niblet and the  
Scoobs had cried over Buffy?  
  
Sodding hell.  
  
Spike stepped out of the shadows. With a roar he  
launched himself at the demon. . .and found himself  
flung against the wall.   
  
Chaos demons were strong buggers. But strength didn't   
take the place of intelligence. Spike regained his   
footing and began fighting in earnest.   
  
Spike was a good fighter, a skilled fighter. . .a   
*talented* fighter. With a graceful turn he landed a   
powerful kick to the demon's solar plexus, then brought   
his elbow down hard on the back of the demon's neck.   
  
The woman the demon had been attacking managed a  
kick her attacker's shins. Clearly the girl  
had spunk. . .enough spunk to get herself killed  
if Spike wasn't there. Grabbing the demon's antlers  
he made a swift turn resulting in a loud crack.  
With its neck broken, the demon dropped neatly to   
the ground. Unfortunately it also dropped on *top*   
of the woman.  
  
Spike heard her screech as she kicked and struggled  
under the beefy demon. Pulling on the dead demon's   
shoulder, Spike managed to free the girl.  
  
Spike blinked in surprise. "Cheerleader?"  
  
Cordelia Chase looked up at him. "If you're going  
to kidnap me--" Her bravado fell away, and her head  
fell back to the ground as she closed her eyes and  
sighed. "Go ahead and do it. I'm too tired to   
fight."  
  
"Kidnap you?" Spike asked in confusion.  
  
"Yeah, you know, take me. Wait until Angel comes  
to rescue me. Jump him. Your ordinary 'Villain's  
Evil Plan 101' stuff."  
  
Spike leaned against the brick wall and lit   
cigarette. "I'm offended."  
  
"Hey, I call villains as I see them."  
  
"I was talkin' about the ordinary part. I always  
liked the element of surprise in my schemes."  
  
As Cordy sat examining the broken heel of her  
shoe she growled, "So surprise me. Let me go and   
leave Angel out of it."  
  
"Alright."   
  
Cordy sat still then looked at Spike curiously.   
"Come again?"  
  
"I *said* alright. No kidnapping. No Angel."  
Spike snuffed out his cigarette and offered her  
a hand to pull Cordelia to her feet. "Tell you what,   
let's leave the Poofter completely out of it and   
not tell him a thing. Not like *he's* ever   
forthcoming with information."  
  
Cordy ignored Spike's offered hand and drew herself   
upright before dusted off her dress. "Are you   
serious?" she asked.  
  
Like he would tell her.   
  
Spike gave a non-committal shrug, and was surprised  
when the dark haired young woman managed a soft,   
surprised smile. "Well great then."   
  
Cordelia stepped over the demon's corpse and moved to   
open Caritas' door.  
  
Suddenly she stopped. She didn't even glance back at   
Spike as she asked with evident disbelief, "Did you   
just save my life?"  
  
"Now why would I do that, pet?"   
  
Cordelia turned around and said softly. "I don't   
know."  
  
Under her intent gaze Spike shifted uncomfortably.  
"Yeah, well wouldn't want you dead and all. It   
would only make Peaches all grievy, no doubt weeping   
all over Buffy. Not to mention me ending up with a   
brassed off Slayer on my hands."  
  
  
"You don't know," Cordy murmured.  
  
"Know what, love?"  
  
"Buffy. She's. . ."   
  
"What?"  
  
"Nothing," Cor said all too quickly. It was telling  
and she rushed her next words. "Buffy's fine.   
Everything is fine. I'm sure she's in Sunnydale   
slaying all the baddies like you."  
  
Spike frowned and circled the girl. "You don't know."  
Well, at least he wasn't the only one the Scoobs had  
forgotten to mention to the gang in L.A. Spike was   
beginning to think the Scoobs and the Scoobies  
Deus never spoke to each other at all.  
  
"I know plenty." Cordy opened the bar room's door and  
walked inside.  
  
Spike was on her heels. "You were about to say Buffy   
is dead."  
  
Cordy gasped. "I did no such thing. That would be  
a dumb thing to say."  
  
"But that *is* what you were going to say."   
  
Cordelia turned on her heel and began wagging her  
finger. "I did not say that. I didn't! I mean, if  
I said that, it would give you hellmouthy ideas."  
  
Spike crossed his arms, "Oh you mean like thinking   
the hellmouth is vulnerable, undefended and open  
to exploitation?"  
  
"Yes. Ideas like that. *Bad* ideas."  
  
"Sorry to say, cheerleader, word leaked out not  
long ago. Hellions hit town and made a right mess  
of the place."  
  
"And you just *happened* to be on hand."  
  
Spike sat on one of the bar stools. "Something like  
that."  
  
Lorne appeared at their side. "I see everything  
turned out the way it should in the alley."  
  
Cordelia blinked. "What?!" She punched Lorne in the   
shoulder. "You *knew* what was going to happen in   
the alley?"  
  
The demon handed Cordy a glass of water. "Saw it   
when the Chaos demon sang an hour ago."  
  
"And you *still* let me walk out there?" She   
looked outraged.  
  
The green demon held up his hands in self defense.  
"I tried to warn you, sweetie, but you were so   
intent on calling Angel--"  
  
"My cell phone wouldn't work inside."  
  
Lorne nodded. "An unfortunate side effect of the   
Furies' spell"  
  
She punched Lorne in the shoulder again. "You   
let me walk outside and be attacked by a demon!"  
  
"I knew nothing was going to happen to you. His   
blonde not-quite-badness here was going to save   
you."  
  
"But he's evil vampire guy!" Cordy protested. "Why   
would he save me?" She faced Spike one more time.   
"Why did you save me?"  
  
Spike shrugged. He really didn't like to contemplate  
these things. He feared if he thought about it too   
often he would run across some motivations he didn't   
want to admit. They didn't mesh with the Big Bad image.   
"'Sides," Spike excused. "You getting killed would only   
brass off the Slayer."  
  
Now Cordy sat at the bar. "No. It wouldn't."  
  
"Oh yes it would. Believe me, I've memorized the  
the list of 'what really burns Buffy.' Know it  
backwards and forwards and by heart, and letting  
her friends get killed --even when they're prats--  
ranks very high on the list. Though-" He eyed Cordy.   
"You probably don't rank quite as high with her as   
Will or Harris."  
  
"Yes, well, Buffy's dead."  
  
"Is not."  
  
"Is too."  
  
"Am not."   
  
Cordy emitted a high pitched shriek at the sight of   
an undead Slayer. "Buffy! You're not dead!"  
Cordy glared a Spike. "She isn't dead."  
  
He picked up a handful of beer nuts. "I believe I  
said that before, love."  
  
Now Buffy glared at Spike who only smirked.  
  
Cordelia frowned then faced Buffy "Or are you dead?  
. . .That is, I mean, are you UNdead." The brunette   
visibly collected herself. "You're not a vampire,   
are you?"  
  
Buffy sighed. "I've been getting that a lot lately.  
No. Not a vampire. Not a zombie either--though the  
only one to ask *that* question was Anya."  
  
"Buffy, you're back!" Cordy threw her arms around   
a surprised Buffy.  
  
Spike almost laughed at the expression on the Slayer's  
face. But to give Buffy credit, she patted Cordelia on   
the back.   
  
Spike supposed even old enemy's could find forgiveness   
and affection...at least he sometimes liked to think   
so.  
  
Cordy stepped away, wiping tears from her eyes.   
"This is just so great." She clasped Buffy's hands.   
"Have you seen Angel? We have to tell him."  
  
"I just did," Buffy explained. "It's why I'm in  
L.A. I. . . uh. . .went to the hotel and talked  
to him. Met his friends, Fred and Gunn. We had   
a nice. . .um. . .reunion."  
  
So why are you here? Spike wondered, but didn't ask.  
Reunion couldn't have been all rosy if the Slayer  
was here rather than with her erstwhile honey.  
  
"Slayer?" Spike asked softly. Just one word but he   
felt certain Buffy knew it held all his questions.  
  
Buffy only shook her head. She wasn't ready to   
talk yet. . .or at least not in front of Cordelia.  
  
"Slayer?!" the excitable Gelf next him squealed.   
It stood and screamed at the top of its lungs,  
"Slayer! Run for your lives!"  
  
The bar emptied quickly.  
  
When the sound of trampling feet died down, the  
bar was perhaps 98% deserted leaving only Spike,   
Buffy, Cordelia, Lorne, and a couple of demons  
who looked so ancient that Spike was not at  
all sure the creatures had not petrified in their  
chairs.   
  
"Hmm... can't say this is going to be a good night   
for business." Lorne complained then shrugged amiably.   
"Oh well. At least it wasn't a mass murder like last   
time."  
  
"Lorne, is this going to cause trouble for you?"  
Cordy asked and real concern seemed to be shading  
her voice. "Two incidents in two weeks can't be   
good for business."  
  
Lorne managed a strained smile. "At least no one   
is dead this time."  
  
Spike raised a finger. "Um...one dead. The Chaos   
demon."  
  
"Oh yes. I forgot."  
  
Buffy arched a brow and looked at Spike. "Chaos  
demon?"  
  
Spike shrugged. "Nothing to it. A poncy bugger."  
  
"Hrmphf!" Lorne scoffed and faced Buffy. "Your   
friend saved our Cordy."  
  
"Hey!" Cordy protested. "Spike isn't Buffy's   
friend."  
  
Taking no note of Cordelia's protest, Buffy   
asked calmly, "Spike saved Cordelia?"   
  
It was his imagination, Spike knew, but he could   
almost swear Buffy's gaze softened when she looked   
at him. It was such a pleasant delusion that Spike  
wasn't quick to push it away just for the sake  
of reality.  
  
Cordy eyed Spike and made what sounded like a   
grudging admission. "Well, he did break the demon's   
neck." Leaning forward so she had a clear view of  
him the brunette asked Spike, "Why did you do that?"  
  
Spike schooled his features to blankness. "You've   
asked that three times, Cheerleader."  
  
"And you haven't answered. Not really. I want an   
answer."  
  
"We don't always get what we want," Spike told her.   
"At least some of us don't." Spike stood, walked   
around the bar, pulled a glass from beneath the bar,   
and looked at Lorne questioningly.   
  
The demon nodded, so Spike pulled the lever and   
filled his glass with Guinness.   
  
* * *  
  
Buffy slowly became aware of the way she was   
watching Spike. Actually, she became aware of the   
green demon watching her watching Spike. Buffy   
straightened her spine, lifted her chin and asked,   
"Is there a Coke or something back there?"  
  
Spike grabbed another glass, filled it with soda, and   
slid it down the bar to Buffy. Hey, even if she hadn't   
been thirsty the request had sort of diffused the   
situation. . .at least Buffy hoped it had.  
  
It didn't work.  
  
Cordelia frowned. "What's going on here?" She  
glanced from Buffy to Spike and back again.  
  
Buffy's kept her face carefully blank. "What's  
what?"  
  
"What's with the whole not killing thing? Aren't  
you two supposed to be mortal enemies?"  
  
Spike waved his hand. "Oh, that."  
  
"Yes, *that*!" the brunette snapped.  
  
Buffy sipped her drink while becoming all too aware   
of the demon's red eyed gaze on her. "We aren't  
trying to kill each other these days," she   
mumbled.  
  
Cordy arched a brow. "Why?"  
  
"After her being dead and all, killin' her just  
seems sort of redundant," Spike announced.  
  
Buffy almost choked on her drink. "You know  
if you had decided that after the *first* time  
I died we could have avoided a lot of problems."  
  
"Yeah, well, who tried to kill who last? If you're  
searchin' for an answer, blondie, I believe it would  
be you."  
  
"Like you didn't deserve it." Pitching her voice  
into the high, sweet tones of the BuffyBot she  
cooed, "Oh Spike! How can I resist your big  
strong arms, your rock hard abs, and your  
sinister attraction."  
  
He had the grace to look a bit unnerved by her  
speech. "Yeah, well, let's not forget the   
'almost tortured to death' part."  
  
"It's the reason you're still walking."  
  
"Okay, time out!" Cordelia yelled as she stood.  
"What's with the Moonlighting routine?"  
  
Buffy blinked. "Moonlighting?"  
  
Spike gave a malicious grin. "You might consider  
being offended, love. I think cheerleader here just   
compared you to Cybill Shepherd."  
  
Now the Slayer glowered. "I am *so* not Cybil  
Shepherd! I wear heels even with pants. And  
I kick butt in them too. Just ask Spike."  
  
"She kicks butt in them," he dutifully repeated.  
  
"See!" Buffy held out her high heeled boot clad  
foot.  
  
Cordy shivered. "Creepy! This is just. . .just  
creepy." Then her gaze settled on the red eyed  
green faced demon. "Back me up here, Lorne.  
Lorne. . .?"  
  
The demon looked distracted.  
  
"Lorne, are you reading Buffy's aura?"   
  
Buffy cast a startled glance at the demon, then  
Spike, then back to the demon. "You read auras?"  
  
Lorne's green face lit with a smile. "It's my   
talent."  
  
Cordy looked curious. "What does Buffy's look   
like?"  
  
The demon frowned. "Hard to say at the moment."  
  
That was a little frightening for Buffy. "Wh-what  
does that mean?" And damnit! Again she found herself   
glancing at Spike for. . .for. . .surely it wasn't for   
reassurance or security or anything. Surely ANYTHING   
but that. Spike gave that tiny, imperceptible nod that   
somehow made Buffy feel both understood and protected.  
  
Damn him.  
  
"Oh, don't be upset, honey," the demon said   
soothingly. "You have an aura and it's a very   
pretty one. It's just fluctuating a little at  
the moment, like you aren't quite sure where you  
belong any longer. You're in a transitional  
phase."  
  
"Then maybe she should sing," Cordy suggested.  
  
Now Buffy was definitely scared. "Sing? Why  
would I sing? In front of people--" Glancing  
quickly at Lorne and Spike "--and um. . ."  
  
Spike arched a brow.  
  
"People," Buffy repeated. She really didn't   
want to piss Spike off tonight. She needed a  
ride home.   
  
Cordy said excitedly, "Lorne reads souls when   
people sing. He can tell you where you're going.  
What's going to happen to you.."  
  
Buffy glanced at the demon who nodded.   
  
She still felt nervous--the sick kind of nervous.  
"Sing? Me? Tonight? No, I don't think so."  
  
Lorne patted her hand. Lorne's hand was surprisingly  
warm and comforting. . .for a demon. "Perhaps your  
friend can sing," he said quietly.  
  
Cordy tilted her head to the side. "Now, why would  
I sing? You read my soul last week."  
  
"I wasn't referring to you, honey. I was speaking  
of him." The demon nodded toward Spike.  
  
Buffy frowned. Confused. "But that wouldn't work.  
Spike doesn't have a soul."  
  
Out of the corner of her eye Buffy thought she saw  
Spike flinch. Still Spike said defiantly, "Yeah,  
that's right. I'm a vampire."  
  
"And he's not her friend," Cordy stressed. "They've  
just taken their sparring to less lethal levels.  
And--ew--spewing hormones in the room. We'll  
ignore that part though. It's creepy."  
  
Something flashed in Spike's blue eyes and his voice  
was flat and expressionless as he drawled, "Thank you,   
for your observations, cheerleader."  
  
Lorne interrupted. "I know he's a vampire. I can   
read vampires. I do it all the time."  
  
"Yeah," Cordelia said. "But that's Angel. He  
has a soul."  
  
"I read other vampires too, sweetie."  
  
Spike leaned against the bar. "You read the  
poof--er-- Angel's soul while he was singing?  
That can't have been pretty."  
  
"Hey!" Cordy protested. "He's got a nice soul.   
It's sort of beige."  
  
"Wasn't talkin' about his soul, pet. Though I must  
say, it figures it would be something as bland as   
beige."  
  
Cordy and Buffy glared at him.  
  
Spike took a sip of his beer and clarified. "I  
was talking about hearing Angel sing. Angelus did   
it a time or two back in the old days. It was one of   
his more annoying forms of torture."  
  
Cordy backed down. "Oh. Well. .. I can't really  
argue with that." She looked at Buffy. "Angel  
can't sing. At all. And the stuff he *chooses*   
to sing. Well, torture isn't too far off the mark."  
  
Lorne continued staring at Spike. "Are you going  
to sing?"  
  
"Well. . ." Spike hedged. "I. . ."  
  
"Are you scared? I'm really not that frightening."  
  
Oh, now the green demon had hit Spike's hot button,  
Buffy thought.  
  
"I am bloody well not afraid! If the poofter  
can do it, I can do it better."   
  
"Considering Angel's singing voice, that's not saying  
much," Cordy muttered.  
  
Lorne ignored her and directed Spike toward the stage.   
"Go ahead, cutie. Entertain us."  
  
Spike glared at the demon then walked toward the stage.  
  
"You should pick a song," Lorne instructed as he pointed  
toward the karaoke selection.  
  
Spike jumped up on the stage and began reading  
the list. "Bloody hell, there are no Sex Pistol  
songs on here."  
  
"Uh. . . no."  
  
"No Ramones either."  
  
"Afraid not."  
  
Now Spike looked desperate. "Smiths?"  
  
"If it isn't on the list, it's not in the machine."  
  
"Not even The Clash!" Spike cursed colorfully under   
his breath.  
  
Lorne assured, "I'm sure if your search long enough   
you can find something."  
  
"Sure I could. . .if I was a wanker." Still  
Spike continued reading the list.  
  
"Oh damn," Cordy said. "I have to call Angel."  
  
Buffy's breath caught. "Really, there's no need,   
Cordelia. I just spoke with Angel."  
  
The brunette shook her head. "No. It's not that.  
When I went outside earlier to call Angel it was  
to warn him about Spike. I got as far as saying  
'Spike!' when the demon attacked and...well...it would  
sort of be 'not fair' for Angel to show up wanting   
to rip Spike's head off when Spike sort of. . .you   
know. . .rescued me."  
  
Buffy had to concede, "Yeah, it might be nice to   
avoid a Spike/Angel confrontation if at all possible."   
  
"There's a phone in my office, Cor," Lorne offered.  
"You could use that."  
  
Cordelia frowned. "Why didn't you offer it earlier?"  
  
"Fate. Now, go call Angel."  
  
Spike finally seemed to have selected a song. It had   
certainly taken him long enough, Buffy thought as he   
approached center stage. He looked uncomfortable.   
  
No. Spike looked *scared.* Buffy hid her smile.   
She had seen Spike face down a horde of demons   
without blinking an eye, but *singing* scared him?  
  
Spike's voice was low and soft and rich as he   
began. Then again, he always had that nice rich   
voice. Buffy wasn't really surprised to discover   
he sang rather. . .well. . .beautifully.   
  
His words washed over her in the darkness. "Shall we   
agree/ just this once that /I'm gonna change my life."   
Spike's gaze met Buffy's. "Until it's just as tiny/ or   
important as you like."   
  
"Mmm. . ." Lorne sighed appreciatively.  
  
"And in time/ we won't even recall that we spoke/ words   
that turned out to be as big as smoke." Spike seemed to   
relax a little as the song progressed. "But smoke   
disappears in the air./ There's always something smoldering   
somewhere."  
  
Buffy leaned forward. "You can read him?"  
  
"Oh yes," the demon answered.  
  
"*How* can you read him? How can you read a  
vampire's soul if he doesn't have one?"  
  
It looked like surprise glittered in Lorne's eyes.   
"Oh, honey, he's *got* a soul."  
  
Buffy gasped.  
  
Spike sang, "I know it doesn't make a difference to   
you,/ but it sure made a difference to me--"   
  
"Soul?" Buffy couldn't believe it. "How?"  
  
"All sentient beings have souls, sweetie."  
  
"But. . .no. Not vampires--I mean no vampire  
other than Angel."  
  
Spike continued singing. "I approached immortal   
danger but you'll never know--"  
  
"Angel has a *human* soul," Lorne stressed. "Others,   
like your friend there, have the demon kind."  
  
"A demon soul?" Buffy shook her head. "Why  
have I never heard of that?"  
  
Lorne shrugged. "Human prejudice mostly. If it's   
not a human soul then it can't be a soul at all.  
At least that's what *certain* people say."  
  
"You sound a offended."  
  
Lorne's pleasant features became momentarily   
solemn. "Look at me. Wouldn't you be?"  
  
Spike's voice seemed to fill the room. "Then down   
the hall I overheard such a heavenly choir./ They   
interrupted my evil designs./ One day you are up   
in the clouds./ The next thing you're down with   
the Sweet Adelines."   
  
Lorne stirred his swizzle stick in his glass that  
was empty except for melting ice. "Some people can  
be so exacting. If something doesn't fit a very  
narrowly defined criteria, it must not exist at all.   
So you call it whatever you like, if my using the   
word 'soul' offends you. Call it his spirit or his   
essence. His 'self' -- ego and id. His heart.   
Different words for what is more or less the same   
thing. It's not a human soul but it's something."  
  
"Something," she repeated as she gazed up  
at Spike on stage.  
  
Spike's gaze met hers and lingered. "There was a time   
not long ago,/ I dreamt the world was flat./ And all the   
colors bled away/ and that was that. . ."  
  
"You want to know what his soul says?" Lorne   
asked.   
  
". . .And in time,/ I could only believe in one   
thing./ The sky was just phosphorus stars on hung   
strings."  
  
It seemed almost intrusive, like she didn't have  
the right to know. But Buffy couldn't resist.  
"What does his--" She almost couldn't say  
the foreign tasting word "--*soul* say?"  
  
Lorne smiled. "I think you already know."  
  
Know? How could she? Then something inside her  
sank. "It's a demon soul, right? Evil. He's just  
evil."  
  
And still Spike sang, "I never thought you could be  
so small."  
  
"You think it's that simple."  
  
"It's supposed to be."  
  
Lorne laughed. "So, you can look at him up there  
and think, what? His soul is black?"  
  
"It's not?"  
  
"Is yours white?"  
  
Spike continued, "The answer was under your nose/  
but the question never arose."  
  
Buffy frowned. "How am I supposed to know? I  
don't see auras."  
  
The demon nodded. "True. Well, I do and let me say  
that pure souls -- either white or black are rare.  
Not that I haven't seen black souls, I have and do--  
though I must say I've yet to see a purely white one."  
  
"They're mostly gray then?"  
  
Lorne shook his head. "How boring would that be?   
No, it's far more complicated than that. It's blue,   
by the way."   
  
Buffy blinked. "Blue? What's blue?"  
  
"His aura."  
  
Spike sang, "Lie down, baby. Don't say a word./  
There, there, baby, your vision is blurred."  
  
"Blue?" She repeated in disbelief. "But that..."   
Buffy sighed. "That doesn't tell me anything."  
  
"Oh it does, if you let it. It just isn't what you  
expected." Lorne leaned closer. "What did you expect?  
*Really*? Black and evil? Gray and ill defined? Bright   
and opalescent like your own?" He leaned back in his   
chair. "Things aren't that simple and easy."  
  
"But *blue*?!"  
  
Spike's voice still threaded through her consciousness.  
"I know it don't make a difference to you,/ but it sure   
made a difference to me."  
  
"Blue means a lot," Lorne explained. "True blue.   
Feeling blue. Blue can be as cerulean as a summer sky   
or as dark as midnight. It can as crystal clear like a pool   
of water or angry as a raging sea. OR it can be bright,   
glowing and electric."  
  
"And which of those would his be?"   
  
"Which?" The demon looked surprised. "Oh, it's not a   
question of *which*, honey. He's *all* those things."  
  
"I don't want to hurt you now," Spike sang.  
  
"And his soul?" Buffy questioned.  
  
"His soul is an open book." The demon told her.  
  
Spike's voice seemed to caress her. "When you find  
me at the end of my rope,/ when the head and heart of  
it finally elope. . ."  
  
"He loves you."  
  
"You can see me off in the distance I hope./ At  
the other end of the telescope," Spike finished.  
  
Spike loved her. Buffy had known that. No, really, she   
had REALLY known that. It was just. . .she didn't know   
what to do with it.   
  
What was she supposed to do with him? Spike was a   
creature who she should not tolerate...but did. He   
was a monster who shouldn't be her friend...but he   
was. No, really, he was. How could she with any sense  
of integrity continue to deny it?   
  
Spike had risked his life for her and hers. More than   
once. He had stood by her side when he had no apparent   
reason to do so other than. . .than he *chose* to do so.  
  
Buffy sighed and looked at Spike moving from the spotlight  
of center stage back into the shadows.  
  
Spike was not *supposed* to be capable of loving anyone,   
especially not her. And yet to doubt his ability to love  
would not only be petty but blindly delusional. Some part   
of her had even accepted that fact *before* her death.   
Since Buffy had returned. . .there was no way she could   
continue pretending to not believe. Spike had proven  
his caring too often and too well.  
  
But believing it, didn't solve anything. In fact it  
confused things in every way Buffy could think of. Things  
truly had made more sense when Spike had hated her. It  
had fit the rules. . .which now that she knew Spike better  
Buffy could admit was a perfectly ridiculous concept.  
  
Spike. Rules. Spike following rules. Ha!   
  
Buffy watched the graceful way Spike negotiated the  
shadows and silently admitted that as lost, confused,   
and frightened as she might be. . .as disconnected with   
her life as she had been since her death, something   
reached through her haze and touched her as being true,   
immutable, and unchanged. But how... HOW could that thing,  
that *one* thing be SPIKE'S love? It defied expectation,  
explanation, and imagination. . .and it rang utterly and  
completely true.  
  
What joke was the universe pulling that out of all the   
uncertainties of her situation, Spike's feelings were   
the thing she did not question or doubt.  
  
He loved her.  
  
Damn.  
  
And Spike was approaching the table.  
  
Buffy glanced around frantically then addressed the demon,  
"I. . .uh. . .Cordelia has been gone for a while. I'll  
just go check on her."  
  
* * *  
  
  
Spike saw the Slayer's back as she disappeared up the  
stairs.   
  
He picked up his beer and drained it. "The Slayer  
skedattled, I see," he observed to the bar owner.  
  
Lorne nodded. "She has a great deal on her mind."  
He paused. "And in her heart. I imagine being  
her is a confusing thing to be these days."  
  
Spike nodded as he sat. "I suspect you're right."  
  
Silence stretched between them. Finally Lorne   
pointed out. "You didn't ask about your destiny."  
  
"*I* never needed to ask about it."  
  
The demon's gaze seemed to bore into Spike before  
the creature nodded. "No, perhaps you didn't.  
You're where you should be. Or at least as long  
as you follow her, you're heading where you should   
be."  
  
"You bloody well know it."  
  
"No," Lorne leaned forward. "I mean that as in  
following her *right now.* Go. She needs your  
help."  
  
That was all Spike needed to hear. 


End file.
